


Reves

by lynndyre



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-08 06:15:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1929816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynndyre/pseuds/lynndyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Porthos dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reves

Despite practice, Athos is unaccustomed to sharing a bed, his body more used to the isolation of la Fere or the solitude of his bunk at the garrison. He is even less accustomed to being woken with an elbow to the face, and reacts appropriately by punching his attacker. As he wakes further, it is Porthos beside him, holding his face, and looking even less awake than Athos is. 

“Sorry.” Porthos mumbles through the hand holding his jaw. “Must’ve had a funny dream.”

Athos relaxes warily, settling back down on the mattress, and watching Porthos in the darkness. The gleam of his eyes is bright. Shines brighter, and then disappears as he rubs his face. On reflection, the punch was probably harder than deserved. The ache to Athos’ nose is already abating.

The tension is still there in Porthos’ shoulders, in the way he holds himself separate, leaving a space clear between their bodies even when he finally lays himself down again.

Athos reaches across, lays a hand on Porthos’ shoulder, keeping it there until he hears the little huff as Porthos exhales, and he can feel the tension leech away. Letting go, Athos’ arm rests on the bed between them.

Athos shuts his eyes, and listens to the soft snurr of Aramis’ breathing from the other bed. After a minute, Porthos’ body snugs against his arm, and relaxes fully. Athos lets himself sink back into sleep.

 

Aramis sleeps easily and lightly wherever he may find himself, and his body is accustomed to company in repose. When his bed partner stirs beside him, Aramis reacts to the small, unhappy noise with half-conscious petting and a questioning murmur. He pulls them closer, into a sleepy embrace, and blinks awake with his face two inches from Porthos’. “Hmmf?”

Porthos laughs, and plants a wet kiss on the end of Aramis’ nose. “I’m not sure if you’re a cure for nightmares, or planning to give me some new ones.”

“Ack.” Aramis scrubs his nose with his hand. “What?”

The only answer he gets is a smile. “Go back to sleep. Everything’s fine.”

Aramis prods Porthos until he rolls over, letting Aramis wrap an arm around his middle, and bury a yawn in the back of Porthos’ shoulder. “As you say.” 

 

D’Artagnan sleeps as easily in company as alone, and sharing a bed is familial and friendly. None of his fellow musketeers are inclined to kick, and while snoring and blanket theft are frequent, they’re also easily resolved with a bit of judicious shoving and yanking. He likes falling asleep next to them.

But he usually expects to wake up the same way, not to the chill of cold air beginning to slide underneath the edge of the blanket, where it’s been pushed aside. Porthos’ side of the bed is empty.

His silhouette is a shadow by the window, with just enough light from the three-quarter moon to show his shape.

“Did you hear something?” Nobody should be after them, but that rarely meant nobody was.

“Nah. Couldn’t sleep anymore. Was remembering some things, not always the way they turned out.” 

He’s quiet, and d’Artagnan is more used to Porthos loud, and strong. Porthos doesn’t hide vulnerability the way Aramis does, but he doesn’t often show it either. In a strange way, it makes d’Artagnan happy to be trusted.

D’Artagnan doesn’t know what shows in his face, but Porthos gives him a curious eyebrow, then the sides of his moustache start to tilt upwards, and he fluffs d’Artagnan’s hair with a lazy hand.

“What’re you so serious about?”

“Nothing. It’s cold. Come back to the bed, you’re like a hot brick.”

 

It’s worst when he’s alone, when he wakes up shaking, teeth bared at the world, with no brother beside him to remind him who he is, now. It takes longer to come back to himself, and he wakes again at the slightest noise, drifting on the edge of not-quite-able to rest. 

Eventually on those nights he gets dressed and goes early to the garrison. At their table in the courtyard, he puts his head down on his arms. The table is smooth, worn by dozens of hands, and smells like candle wax. Further away is the smell of the horses, cleaner than the human refuse of Paris’ streets. Here, like this, Porthos can go back to sleep.

It should be harder here, in the open. It should feel less safe. But no bolthole, however well disguised, and no building, however well protected, have ever given Porthos the surety of safe haven he has here. 

In the safety of the garrison’s walls, he will sleep through the hours before dawn, through the creeping of slow sunlight over the rooftops. The air is cool, but not cold, and Porthos burrows his face further into his arms when other musketeers begin to arrive, but sleeps through the morning chatter, the familiar sounds of preparation for duty. He grunts as Treville passes, lays a hand on his back, and disappears up the stairs, and stirs as Serge puts down a plate of bread, but nods off again once he has one in hand.

He stirs properly when Athos sets a cup down in front of him, and Aramis settles on the bench at his side. It’s an easy waking, with the tension of night and dream and solitude wiped clean, and only the tension of sleeping at a strange angle remaining. Porthos answers Aramis’ teasing ‘good morning’ with a yawn, and stretches hugely, narrowly missing d’Artagnan, who steps to the side and makes a grab for the bread roll as it comes in range.

Porthos stuffs it in his mouth, and offers d’Artagnan a gesture, and the other two a bread-filled grin. 

Aramis laughs, and Athos smiles, and d’Artagnan drops onto the bench at Porthos’ other side, and submits to having his hair ruffled -- or rather, fails to defend against it in his pursuit of breakfast, which Aramis threatens to pull out of reach.

Athos’ hand rests on Porthos’ wrist, grips once. 

It’s a good morning.


End file.
